Snared- Gale's Story
by MockingjayKtns
Summary: The war is over and the ashes have settled. Or have they? Gale struggles to build a new life in District 2, trying to forget his past. But how far will he go to do so? Will he ever be able to forget the grey eyes that haunt him? Or will he lose himself in the process? Set after the war in Mockingjay. Please review, favorite, follow, share with your friends!
1. Prologue

Prologue

The war is over.

It just seems to surreal. The aftermath of the bombs, when the smoke cleared away- our victory.

But at what price?

I've got to admit that life now has its perks. The new Capitol has offered me a high-paying job in exchange for my services. Paylor seemed pleased that I stuck through with the rebellion from beginning to end. An act of loyalty, she had told me as she awarded me with war honors that I had earned.

Beetee was also working with me down in Two, both of us developing new weapons and given high-ranked military statuses that would allow us both to command troops and regulate the new Peacekeepers.

The feeling of power was one that I never expected to fall into my hands. Being born and raised in 12 reinforces that. You're poor. Barely able to feed your family. Pathetic compared to the Peacekeepers. Weak.

At least that was before the rebellion.

Now I'm a new man.

_But at what price?_ I ask myself this constantly only because the answer rings true for me.

I developed the bombs and the plans that killed countless innocents.

I killed my best friend's sister.

I lost my best friend in the process.

My hands grip the sides of my head. My fingers grasp at my hair, pulling at the strands painfully, but I can't bring myself to care.

No pain can equate to the hole in my chest that my mistakes had created.

I can feel my face shifting into an expression of agony, but there's no point in fighting it. It will always come back twice as strong.

All because I think about her.

Those grey Seam eyes, sharp with instinct and mysteriously unreadable. The deadly precision with the bow and arrow. The braid that would swing around her shoulder when she hopped the dying log in the forest we always passed to check the strawberries.

But what I miss the most is her honesty. Her strength. She held me together. We worked as a team, even when starving. Dying. We never gave in.

But now she's gone. No doubt hating me for what I've done.

My muscles are cramping, they're tensed so tightly. I force myself to breathe, but the breaths come out harsh, panting. I can't get enough air into my lungs but it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter because my world is crashing down without her.

A guttural cry erupts through the room. With a snarl, I grab the smooth black marble table top of the coffee table and heave. It goes flying and lands with a crash against a wooden shelf.

The impact seems to knock the sense back into me as I stand, chest heaving, and stare at the damage the heavy marble slab had done to the shelf. The contents from the shelf have spilled down onto the floor, leaving shattered glass and chips of wood lying around dangerously. I shake my head, breathing deeply, before crossing the room and kneeling down to pick up the pieces.

Just as I consider fetching a dustpan to sweep up the pieces, I feel a shooting pain through my hand as my fingers grasp a particularly sharp shard of glass. Cursing inwardly to myself, I throw the piece into the trash can. As if things couldn't get any worse.

But then I notice the fallen picture frame lying nearby. I had almost forgotten that it had been on the shelf. Perhaps one of the Capitol assistants had put it there when they helped me relocate to District 2.

I pick up the frame, gently shaking it to dislodge any debris. Tinkering glass pieces fall to the floor but I ignore them.

Its her. And me. It was rare for anyone in District 12 to have their pictures taken, but this was when she had returned to District 12 after the 74th Games. A Victor. With Mellark.

Mellark.

The surge of despair returns, but I only stare at the picture harder, trying to hold back the rage that builds when I think of all the circumstances that changed our fates forever. The Reaping. The Games. The war. The bombs-

_No. _I stare harder at the picture of Katniss and I, hanging onto that one shred of memory I have left that can console my pain.

She's smiling in this picture. I remember it all clearly. The reporters were all allowed to watch her reunite with her family. And I, playing the part of her cousin, was allowed to be one of the first to welcome her home with open arms.

She had just finished hugging her mother and had turned expectantly in my direction. Even from the distance between us, I could see the warmth flood into her eyes. The relief.

As soon as my arms went around her, I knew I could never let her go again. That she was the one. The Games only strengthened that for me. Her absence was a part of my own self vanishing into thin air. Without her there, I never felt more alone in my life. It only made me clutch her all the more tightly.

I can still remember the forest scent of her hair, still the same even after her time in the Capitol. I can still remember how thin and exhausted she had been as she held me tightly. I can still remember her words as if she has just breathed them into my ear. "I missed you, Gale."

I drop the picture frame with a clatter, closing my eyes tightly and letting my head fall back in anguish. With my face to the ceiling, no one would ever see the tears that would spill out every time she crossed my mind.

My hand drops ungraciously to my side, but not before a drop of blood falls and lands on the cracked glass of the frame, right where Katniss and I remain embraced.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter 1

"Hawthorne. Hawthorne!"

"What?" I growl, rotating the bomb prototype in my hands thoughtfully. "I'm busy, Beetee."

"I know. But you need a break." The older man pushes his glasses up as he gives me a concerned look.

"I don't need a break. I've only been working for an hour," I snort disbelievingly. I grab a pair of pliers and adjust a stray wire.

Beetee's sigh says otherwise. "You've been messing with that same device for the whole hour. You haven't done anything else or even looked at the blueprints I sent over to you."

I glance up at him. "You didn't send me any blue-" I spot the papers almost as soon as the words leave my mouth, lying on my desk in a neat pile.

"You're distracted." I flinch. They aren't the words I want to hear.

"I am not."

"You're trying to bury yourself in your work, but its not working," he points out sternly.

"Just because I'm concentrating on finishing this project doesn't mean I'm distracted," I snap. The pliers clatter on the table top as I hold Beetee's gaze. He doesn't back down.

"Hawthorne, take a break," he sighs, shaking his head. "It'll help you."

Irritation bubbles up. "I'm fine," I insist, grabbing the blueprints he has placed on my desk. He just shakes his head in disbelief.

Suddenly, I'm angry. It seems now that no one will even treat me like a normal adult who's able to take care of himself. They act like I don't even know myself. Beetee's pestering combined with the Capitol attendants they stationed in my house grow tiring and I've had enough.

Beetee looks up at the sound of my chair being shoved back abruptly. He doesn't seem surprised as I grab my coat and say, "I'm done for the day. I'll look over the blueprints at home." Turning on my heel, I walk out before he can even respond.

Leaves crunch under my feet as I storm back to my home. The cool fall breeze picks up a few stray ones and they skitter across the ground as I walk through town.

2 is very different from District 12. But the dark, dank colors of stone here remind me of the coal mines and the dull colors of 12, giving it a comforting quality that I've come to appreciate.

District 2 is a lot more upscale than District 12. The buildings are all made of long-lasting blocks of stone that have been expertly placed in intricate patterns. I briefly wonder how it is that such Districts like 2 could have been favored so much more than others, such as 12. How it is that many can starve to death in 12 while others in 2 can afford to buy practically everything that they desired.

It infuriates me, but it also relieves me, knowing that things are changing thanks to Paylor. I've heard news of supplies and goods being sent to the outer Districts as well as fair sums of money to make up for the dangerous work that District 12 citizens usually provide for the Capitol. The coal mining industry has boomed thanks to this new pay rate, and, combined with safer conditions in the mines, District 12 is now a flourishing District of growth.

Briefly, I feel my thoughts drifting towards the one person I think about the most whenever District 12 is mentioned, but instead, I focus on my footsteps, counting them.

I kick at the leaves that flutter into my way, feeling my anger melt away slowly. This leaves me alone with my thoughts, a little clearer than before.

Beetee once mentioned to me that I get angry easily, mostly because its so easy to find something that will upset me. I, of course, denied it. "I'm just trying to figure everything out," I argue, but Beetee would have none of it and just shrugged.

I partially think he's right. When I think back to every temper tantrum I've had, its mostly because I don't know what I'm doing with myself. I lost myself in the past and the what-could-have-beens.

But I can't bear the thought of being so out of control of myself. Why do my emotions overwhelm me so easily? Why is it always her that can drive me over the edge of sanity and send me beyond?

I head over to my home at the west side of the District, ignoring the small children that laugh and play at the side of the road. It doesn't concern me how happy they are. Not when I can't even get my own life straightened out.

A ball bounces into view and stops me as it rolls into my path and stops. The children have gone quiet. I glance over at them to see them huddled nervously, wondering what I'm going to do.

I carefully pick up the ball, rolling it in my fingers. It pains me that they're scared of me.

"Mister, can I have our ball back?"

Turning, I spot a small young girl staring up at me with curious eyes. She can't be any older than 7 years, but her stature speaks of a maturity far from her age. Her eyes are a startling grey that reminds me so much of the people back in 12 and her hair is the classic blond hair usually found in 2.

"Yeah, here," I say gruffly. I thrust it into her arms, muttering, "And watch where you're playing next time."

"Why are you sad?"

Her question surprises me more than anything. Just because its one that isn't asked of me often. Usually, the only thing asked of me is 'why are you angry?".

Which usually results in me being even angrier because they simply don't understand the emotions underneath my anger.

"My best friend doesn't like me anymore," I find myself saying.

She only cocks her head to the side. "Best friends don't stay mad."

My lips straighten into a grimace. "She won't forgive me."

She shrugs flippantly, but it doesn't bother me. I don't expect her to understand.

"Best friends say sorry," she says quickly, meeting my gaze with a fierce one.

I can only stand there and blink. She reminds me so much of Katniss in this way- pointing out the obvious without a shred of disdain. Those piercing eyes that seem to make me want to pull the best out of myself instead of fail under her gaze.

But for some reason, I don't feel any sorrow thinking about Katniss in this way. Not when I'm talking to this little girl.

"Hey! Come on, let's play!" Her friends call to her impatiently as I shuffle awkwardly in place. The girl takes one last moment to really look at me before spinning around, about to flounce off to rejoin her friends.

"Wait! What's your name?" I call after her. Her friends stare at me as if I've grown a second head, but I don't care. All that matters is the little girl who seems to understand me better than anyone in the District.

She pauses and looks over her shoulder.

"My friends call me Nic," she calls back cheerfully.

"What's your real name?"

She only smiles at me, giggling. "We're friends, right? That means you can call me Nic."

She scampers away, leaving me standing there, wondering why she's the only one that seems to understand.


	3. Chapter Two

_Sorry for the late update, I have midterms and papers coming up! My time has been crushed down to perhaps... 15 minutes of writing per day ._. Its really sad for me to postpone putting up chapters almost every other day like I would normally do, but what must be done must be done :( I promise as soon as midterms are over, I'll spend an ENTIRE WEEKEND dedicated to writing more chapters! Read, review, let me know what you're thinking :)_

Chapter 2

Beetee comes to visit me when the sun goes down. The knock on the door tells me its him. Hesitant. Unsure.

I set down the blueprints I had been looking over and cross the room, opening the door. Beetee is shuffling nervously in place, pushing up his glasses as he fidgets. "Gale."

"Beetee. Come on in." I step aside so the frail man can enter but Beetee shakes his head. "I only stopped by to check in on you," he says, clearing his throat.

"I'm fine." The answer comes out curtly and I realize just how gruff I sound to this man who has done nothing to me. "Thank you."

Beetee nods and there is a long silence before he spots the blueprints lying on the table where I had left them. "Did you see the new prototype I'm creating?"

I reach up and scratch the back of my head. "No."

"It's a new chemical material we can use to create tougher, long-lasting products," Beetee explains. "However, I don't have the skills to really develop it while I'm working on the new tracking device the Capitol assigned to me. I would like you to work on it."

I look up at him in surprise. "Don't they want bombs and guns instead?"

"They think that this new material can be crafted into armor and the parts of weaponry," Beetee explains. His eyes take on that glazed lost look he only gets when he is speaking scientifically.

I sigh to myself. I have nothing against Beetee at all. He helped us win the war. He made me an excellent bow to fight with during the rebellion. He supported my bomb idea through and through.

I guess it only makes sense that he's the only one who's stuck with me through it all.

But I can't help feel a bit disappointed that he's the only person in this entire District that really knows me. My only friend. And I don't even confide anything in him. It just doesn't feel right.

"I'll get on it tomorrow," I promise, trying to ease the palpable tension in the room. "I'll finish looking over it tonight and be in the lab in the morning."

Beetee nods, but looks troubled. "Listen, Hawthorne," he begins, trailing off. I tilt my head, indicating that he should continue. "I'm here for you, okay? But what happened during the war-"

"Good night, Beetee." I interrupt quietly as I shake my head and show him out the door. I really don't want to hear any of it anymore. What's past is past. There's no way to change it.

He doesn't protest. Probably because he heard the fine line of malice in my quiet, tired voice. Warning him. If he pushed me too far, he knows what I'm capable of.

Once the door is shut behind him, I turn, leaning my back against the cool wood of the door. After several deep breaths, I pick up the blueprints and walk down the hallway to my bedroom. My sanctuary.

I throw myself down on my bed with a grunt. The gray sheets, dank and bland like the rest of District 2, feel soft and comforting as I lay there, still gripping the blueprints.

Glancing at them quickly, I can see that Beetee has detailed most of the work already. Its almost as if he's giving me the credit for such an elaborate project that is practically completed. Perhaps he pities me, knowing how difficult it is for me to think clearly enough as of late to invent something that will actually work.

I kick off my boots and go to rub some water on to my face. Perhaps if I cleared my mind, it would be easier to think.

I lean against the cool marble counter as I flick the water on. The cool water pouring from the faucet seems like such a luxury to me still, even though I haven't lived in District Twelve for months.

I bend down and splash the water on my face, the icy sensation sending shivers down my spine. When I turn the water off, I glance up into the mirror.

A broken man stares back at me. His eyes dull with defeat. There's no life on this man's face. The one looking back at me is as cold as the stone the makes up the heart of District 2. Water trickles down my face and falls onto the counter as I meet the gaze of the man in the mirror.

But I can't find the life inside me that I once had.

I grab the towel hanging on the wall and wipe the water from my skin before throwing it onto the laundry hamper. I can feel the anger bubbling up again. The disappointment in myself for losing everything. All for what? A rebellion?

But I can't think like that. No, the rebellion was the best thing for Panem's people.

Then why did I have to pay such a large price?

I swing around and throw my fist up against the wall in my frustration. I hear the sickening snap of bones fracturing from the blow against the solid granite, but I can't bring myself to care.

I relish the pain. It fuels me. Its the one thing that defines my presence here in this life of damnation.

My cry is one of pain, but not from the hand I have just broken.

Its one of a broken heart that can't be pieced back together.

Its one that speaks of a loneliness and suffering of a wound that can't be treated with wealth or power.

Its one that yearns to feel human. To feel alive. To love and to be loved.

I crumple to the floor. Perhaps my body is registering the pain radiating from my hand. But I don't feel anything.

I've grown cold and numb to the world. I've turned into someone who no longer cares or is cared for.

I am the only man in District 2 with a heart made of stone, crushed to rubble.


	4. Chapter Three

_Sorry for not updating sooner, I've been incredibly busy with schoolwork and midterms! But Thanksgiving break is coming soon! I'm excited to get all this free time to write! Thanks for all the support- your reviews encourage my drive to continue writing! Read, review, ask questions, comment (: Anything!_

Chapter 3

Darkness. That's all I see around me. It must still be nighttime, but that is hardly what I'm concerned about.

I struggle to get my eyes open, but I can't do more than pull the air I need into my chest with every shallow breath.

At first, I wonder why its so hard to just pull myself up into a sitting position when I realize exactly where I am. I lie right where I had fallen to the floor after giving in to the anger inside of me.

I curse inwardly as I realize that my hand now burns and throb painfully, but the pain makes me dizzy and I don't know whether or not I can even attempt anything more than rolling onto my side.

I lie there for hours, gritting my teeth and trying to stem the pain erupting from my hand long enough so I can hoist myself to my feet.

The pain doesn't subside, but instead seems to multiply in intensity as I grow more and more awake and aware of my surroundings. I can hear my harsh pants in the quiet room, trying to calm my racing heart. _You're fine, Hawthorne. Suck it up._

But as the pain begins to overwhelm me, I can barely contain the groans that pull themselves from my throat. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to push away the sharp sensations.

I'm sweating heavily when I hear my bedroom door burst open and the sound of footsteps rush into the room. "Oh my- sir, are you alright?"

I can only grunt in response and keep my forehead pressed against the cold stone floor that has done nothing but suck the heat from my body. The pain is so great, I can see stars behind my eyelids.

Whoever it is must notice that I'm clutching my right wrist, right above the crushed hand, because I feel a hand graze my arm. I shrink away instinctively.

"Let me help you," the voice pleads, pushing on my shoulder lightly so I'm facing the ceiling. Or at least I think I am. Its hard to perceive anything that's going on besides the pain blossoming and the fact that this insistent voice keeps urging me to lie back and breathe deeply.

The hand returns, still as gentle as ever, and carefully removes my other hand from where its clinging on my other arm. "You'll be okay. Someone's getting help."

The voice is strangely tranquil and calm. It reminds me of mist, the way it resonates and seems to cloud the turmoil in my mind.

"You're bleeding." The voice sounds slightly shocked, and I feel the presence at my side begin to slip away.

"No. Please." My voice cracks from the pain, but I just shut my eyes tighter to stem it off. "Stay."

"I'll just be a moment," the voice promises. As quickly as they had gone, the person was back. A warm cloth tentatively touches my hand and I flinch. "I'm sorry, it will sting a little."

I just grit my teeth and wait as the cloth dabs lightly against my skin.

Its silent for the few moments it takes to clean up the blood, but not for long. "Why did you do this?"

"The wall-" I begin, but the voice cuts me off.

"Why. Not how."

I pause. But my head is spinning and I'm not sure what is really going on through the agonizing sensations running through me and the stranger helping me.

"Because it hurts," I explain shortly. That's all I can really manage. That's all I really want to tell this unknown person helping me.

There's another pause. "So you break your body to match your soul."

The words are gentle. They're said with an almost somber tone that makes me almost want to cry. There's no gush of pity or sympathy in them. But just a sort of sadness that makes me want to take it all back and pretend it all never happened.

I don't have the strength to argue.

And when I don't deny it, I can almost feel the disappointment and shock radiating from the being next to me.

"Don't-" the voice begins, but the door of the room opens and I hear footsteps come rushing into the room.

"Ma'am, do you know anything about what happened to Hawthorne?" Another voice joins in, urgent and hard. Its such a drastic difference compared to the gentle one I had heard only moments before that I immediately want to tell him to shut up. To leave whoever was helping me alone. This woman.

"No. My sister heard noises from this house and we-"

"Your sister is waiting outside. She's with another paramedic. You shouldn't have let such a young girl run off, especially with the construction going on-"

"I had no choice," the woman's voice insists. "I couldn't very well leave her here to take care of this injured man. She would be scared!"

"I'm sorry, miss, but we're going to have to ask you to go outside," another voice chimes in. Another woman. "We paramedics have to transport Mr. Hawthorne to the District hospital."

I hear footsteps shuffling around the room and feel large hands carefully grasp my shoulders and legs. Just as I'm hoisted onto a stretcher, I hear the young woman ask, "Will he be okay?"

"He'll be fine," she's promised.

As I let the black wave of unconsciousness wash over me, the last thought I have on my mind is of how thoughtful and caring it was for her to be concerned over someone as broken as me.

I wake to a slight pressure on my hand. My head throbs painfully, almost as if I had hit it on something.

As soon as I move though, a hand rests itself on my arm. "Easy, Mr. Hawthorne. We're getting you all fixed up so you can go home." I open my eyes, squinting against the bright light streaming in from the window.

The hospital room is bleak, like the rest of District 2. The same stone walls- this time made of a clean-cut marble that seems to sparkle at every angle. The floor is a darker shade of granite that it placed in complex patterns, snaking this way and that until it disappears into the main hospital corridor.

My attention is pulled back to my hand when the nurse carefully lifts my arm to pull the bandage around my wrist. "You'll be in this cast for a few weeks," she clarifies as I stare, mesmerized by the pattern the cloth is creating around my injured hand. "Its only a small fracture, but we still want to make sure it heals up good as new."

I nod, but only because I'm still trying to focus my disoriented mind.

The nurse smiles at me. "Do you remember anything? We had to put you out with some drugs because you began to thrash and scream once we loaded you into the ambulance."

I look at her in surprise. I don't actually remember losing control over myself in that manner. In fact, I almost find myself not believing her.

"No. All I remember is being watched over..." I trail off, not sure how to continue.

The nurse continues to wrap my hand, but the smile doesn't leave her face. "Was that girl your girlfriend? She seemed so concerned over your health. It was very cute to see how worried she was over you."

My jaw goes slack. For once, I'm at a loss for words so much so that I can't even stutter out a nonsensical reply. My girlfriend? Where did she get that idea?

"She stayed with you the entire time until we had to drive you to the hospital. Her little sister did too. The poor thing was so frightened after seeing the bloody towel in her sister's hand. Cried, too, when she saw you come out of the house on a stretcher." She shakes her head as she ties off the bandages.

I observe my hand carefully, attempting to flex a few fingers experimentally, but they're bound tightly. The nurse notices. "No hard labor for the next two weeks," she orders, reaching to the counter and snatching up a white paper bag. "Or you might make the fractures worse. This is your medication. Its just antibiotics that need to be taken once a day as soon as you go to sleep."

I nod carefully, taking the bag with my good hand. "What time is it?"

"Almost 2 in the afternoon," she responds, beginning to clean up the medical supplies without so much as glancing back at me. "You're free to go. Come back in two weeks for a check up and perhaps we'll even remove the bandages." When she leaves the room, I'm left to ponder my next move.

After a few moments alone, I unsteadily get to my feet. But I straighten up quickly.

All I know is that I need to find whoever helped me and thank them.


	5. Chapter Four

Beetee is waiting outside as soon as I step out into the cool hospital hallway. It doesn't surprise me that he is there, but I only stare back as he awkwardly dips his head in greeting. "Hawthorne."

He looks a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and dark with exhaustion. "You should be resting more, Beetee," I point out gently, but he shrugs.

"Hawthorne, the Capitol isn't happy with your behavior," he says timidly. He wrings the edge of his coat nervously. "They think your... mental instability is a danger to both the development of the military technology and to the safety of you and me."

He pauses, dropping his gaze to the ground. I feel the familiar uneasiness gathering in my stomach, but I push it down. Mostly for Beetee's sake.

"So what does that mean?" I'm almost afraid to ask, but it must be done.

Beetee shuffles in place for a moment. I can almost see the frail man gathering his resolve, and when he straightens up and looks me in the eye, I'm almost impressed he is able to break such news to me.

"They're putting you on temporary leave."

I had figured as much right when I had been lying on my bedroom floor in agony. In fact, I was almost certain that they would perhaps even terminate my employment, simply because I was destructive and harmful to myself.

"Alright." Beetee seems startled at my response. I am as well, considering how calm and collected I sound. "How long?"

"A week for starters," he stammers, blinking rapidly. "They want you back in the lab as soon as possible, but only when you're well."

I nod. Of course they would want me back in the lab. I had almost forgotten about the hundreds of prototypes they had asked me to create.

But for some reason, this thought is far from reassuring.

"Okay. I'll see you at work next week." I turn on my heel to leave, but I hear Beetee mumble under his breath and stop.

He waits until I face him again before repeating what he had said. "You're required to make a call to Paylor in the middle of your leave. Its a paid leave so she wants to check in on you."

I really don't find it necessary to call Paylor. In fact, I really find myself tempted not to call her to test what exactly she would do against me.

But I decide against it. There's no point in stirring up more trouble, especially against someone like Paylor.

"I understand. Goodbye, Beetee." I clap my good hand onto his shoulder with finality before turning away and walking away. He makes no move to stop me.

When I step out of the hospital, the rays of sunlight are still bright and the sun is high in the sky. It is mid afternoon, just like the nurse said, and the sun's warm rays are tempered by the light fall breeze.

I glance down at my bound hand, noticing a faint throb coming from beneath the bandages. I open up the bag the nurse had given me to inspect the medication, wrinkling my nose in distaste as I pull out thin vials of clear liquid as well as needles for the injections.

"Those look like fun."

I turn in surprise, but not because the voice sounded so close behind me so suddenly.

It was because it was the voice of the person who helped me.

One of the vials slips from my grasp, but a thin hand snaps it out of the air before it can smash into the ground. I blink, dumbfounded, as the person before me straightens and flips the long curtain of hair from their face.

Its a girl. No, a woman. A very beautiful one at that. With glossy dark brown hair that flows down past her shoulders and the brightest green gaze I had ever seen in my life, I found myself tongue-tied as she extended her hand, still holding the vial of medication. "I believe this is yours."

I can only nod as I take it from her and hurriedly place it back into the bag. She watches me silently with her penetrating green gaze, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Her gaze, though entrancing and the color of forest ivy, feels as if she can see every secret I've ever had. Like she could read me just by looking straight into my soul.

I can barely lift my own eyes to meet her's. "Thanks."

"How is your hand?" She doesn't move from where she stands and I'm able to take a better look at her now that I'm not transfixed on her face.

She wears dark clothing that seems to hug her body perfectly- black leather pants with dark boots, a black armored tank top. In fact, as I take in more of her clothing, the more I realize that it looks like a uniform. She wears a utility belt just above her waist containing a holster for a long blade. A small pack hangs from her back, attached to a chest harness. I can just catch a glimpse of a blade attached to her back from this angle.

"Your hand? Are you sure you're alright?"

Her voice brings me back from my observations. "Oh. Its fine."

She looks amused. "Maybe you should go back and have them check your head too," she muses, giving me another opportunity to examine her again. She's athletic. Her form speaks of an impressive physical prowess, but I can't say exactly how impressive just by taking in the toned lean muscles on her arms and shoulders.

"Hello?"

"Sorry," I mutter, blinking to focus on what this woman is saying to me.

"You should probably get home and rest," she says slowly. She's trying to keep the laugh out of her voice. "You seem a little out of it."

"I just... thank you. For helping me earlier." I wince at my choppy words, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"It was nothing. You should've heard the noises you were making. I would have had to be heartless if I didn't at least go inspect what was going on." She flips a bit of hair that falls over her eyes out of the way. "I have to go. My sister should be waiting for me to pick her up from school. She'll have my head if I don't get there soon."

She turns to leave, but my voice finds itself again. "Wait!"

She pauses and glances over her shoulder. "What?"

"Your name."

Her lips tip up. "I'll tell you next time we meet, Hawthorne."

I watch her go until she's out of sight, the cool wind lightly blowing against my face.


End file.
